


Favors

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Biting, Blindfolds, Blood, Bondage, Established Relationship, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sensory Deprivation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-19
Updated: 2015-05-19
Packaged: 2018-03-26 02:49:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3834214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It’s not relaxation Illumi’s seeking with the loss of his vision, not the peace of separation from the world the darkness grants; it’s the adrenaline, the surge of uncertainty that hits his blood like long-forgotten heat, that leaves him staring wide-eyed against the dark of the fabric over his eyes." Illumi asks a favor of Hisoka and Hisoka grants it to him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Favors

Illumi doesn’t relax under the blindfold.

It’s not  _for_  relaxation. He spends all his life relaxed, calm and passive and waiting, poised on the brink of action without toppling over into tension. He’s very good at it, better than Killua, better than all his siblings, so good at it he long ago forgot how to turn it off. It’s not relaxation he’s seeking with the loss of his vision, not the peace of separation from the world the darkness grants; it’s the adrenaline, the surge of uncertainty that hits his blood like long-forgotten heat, that leaves him staring wide-eyed against the dark of the fabric over his eyes.

He can hear Hisoka’s laugh. That’s familiar, the ever-sensual purr from the other side of the fabric, and just that frame of context takes the edge off, smoothes his budding excitement back into the lull of expectation. His shoulders loosen, his weight dropping back to hang from the knots the other tied minutes ago at his wrists, and he doesn’t need sight to hear the pout in Hisoka’s voice.

“I’m insulted that you find me soothing.” A hand at Illumi’s shoulder, deliberately sharp nails dragging up against the line of his throat. Illumi doesn’t flinch. He can still hear where Hisoka is, within easy reach, and just because he doesn’t have his hands free doesn’t mean he’s anything like vulnerable. It would be easy to aim a kick correctly, to drive a knee into the other’s stomach or aim a kick at his kneecap, if Illumi was at all interested in incapacitating him. But he’s not, that’s not the favor he asked for, and when he answers his voice is flat with the knowledge that Hisoka is trying to tease him.

“Stop stalling.” He doesn’t move; patience is something else he has become very good at, even if he finds the delay less fraught with the excitement of tension than Hisoka seems to.

“You’re so  _demanding_ ,” Hisoka purrs, leaning in so close Illumi almost thinks the other is about to kiss him. But the angle is incorrect, the gust of breath at his skin at his shoulder instead of his mouth, and when the contact comes it’s fingers tracing over the outside edge of Illumi’s ear.

That  _is_  startling. It’s nice to be reminded that Hisoka can be quiet when he wants to be, that just because he tends towards showy misdirection doesn’t mean he’s not skilled at the sleight of hand his self-adopted title of magician would imply. Illumi notes that reminder, stores it away in the back of his mind for future reference as Hisoka’s touch leaves silence in its wake, the barrier over his ear no less effective for being makeshift.

“And then you don’t even want to  _listen_  to me,” Hisoka says, the sound odd and distorted without the usual stereo input from both ears, and he presses his other hand to Illumi’s uncovered ear. The effect is instant, the sound of Hisoka’s voice and the ambient noise of the world both sliced off immediately, and Illumi’s shoulders tense again without any conscious effort at all on his part.

It’s only quiet for a moment, the ringing emptiness of an absence of what was once there; then Illumi’s heartbeat takes over, the thudding loud enough without a backdrop that he can feel it along his spine and shivering against the back of his teeth. He can hear his breathing, too, the hiss of air in his lungs with every inhale, but all his external awareness is gone, he might as well be entirely alone for all that he can hear or see. The pressure against his neck is gone, too, the scrape of fingernails and the warm of breath alike, until all he has to feel is as personal as the sound of his breathing, the catch of cloth against his skin and the dull weight of effort settling into his shoulders as they support his weight.

He isn’t sure how long Hisoka waits. Rationally he knows the other has never been very good at being patient, not the way Illumi is, at least, but in the present moment rationality has very little bearing on the way his heart is racing in his chest or the thud of adrenaline skidding through his veins. There’s just no input around him, sound and sight both gone and even sensation largely eliminated from the way Hisoka has him suspended, and without any frame of reference Illumi feels like he’s lost, losing his time and place and even himself until the frantic pace of his heartbeat might as well be the entire purpose of his existence.

In that state, the touch is a relief. The physical contact Illumi usually finds unimportant at best and distasteful at worst is a tether, the heat of the skin pressed against the back of his neck a comforting proof of someone else’s existence in a reality fractured and crumbling under the weight of silent darkness. Illumi takes a breath, his lungs filling with the air he was beginning to doubt even existed, and there’s motion to match the touch, the fabric of his clothes shifting under someone else’s force. He suspects it’s Hisoka, though he has no real way to confirm that; for all he knows the delay could have been the other leaving, or ushering in complete strangers, the texture of skin dragging across his as his pants slide off his hips could be Hisoka’s or the warmth of someone Illumi’s never met before. The idea tingles under his skin, sends sparks into his blood, and he can’t tell if it’s pleasure or panic but the adrenaline is the same, excitement shivering through him like he’s ordinary, like this is a sensation to which he’s accustomed. It leaves him breathless, his heart pounding desperate in his chest like it’s trying to shatter itself free of the cage of his ribs.

The air is cold against Illumi’s bare skin. That’s strange too, that it should feel like anything other than the ghosting contact air always has, but he’s reaching for details, affixing all his attention on what little he has left to work with, the taste of oxygen on his tongue when he breathes in or the way the exposed skin at his thighs is prickling goosebumps of chill from the lack of covering. The hands are gone again, there’s neither the warmth nor the friction of contact, and Illumi starts to feel lost again, like the cold and the rhythm of his breathing are all there are in the world. There’s an ache, too, the first tinge of what might be arousal low in his abdomen, but he can’t recognize it without a framework to set it against, without the reference point of someone else’s reaction to judge it. It just feels like heat, heavy and sparking and a little bit unpleasant, like it’s forming a knot in his body Illumi doesn’t know how to undo.

He can’t hear the sound he makes. It’s strange, to feel the vibration in his throat and have it fall silent and cold instead of converting to sound against the curve of his ears. It makes him feel detached, lost in his body as much as in the world, like maybe he’s not making any sound at all, maybe he doesn’t even exist.

Then the touch comes back, fingertips dragging friction against Illumi’s hip, and he gasps a soundless breath like he’s just remembered how his lungs work. It’s easier, with the evidence of someone else, the contact to frame himself around, easier still when another hand slicks up the inside of his thigh to press against him. Even the slippery stretch of fingers dipping inside him is grounding, tips Illumi’s head back on reflex and pushes another sound he can’t hear out of his throat, and if his entire self is become the heated friction inside him at least that’s still something on which to base his presence. There’s the motion of fingers drawing back and pressing in deeper, and Illumi can feel his body reacting of its own accord, drawing tighter and then easing into submission as if it can’t make up its mind. He doesn’t have any control over it; there’s no  _him_  outside the context of his nerve endings right now anyway, the usual calm observer in the back of his head has gone as silent and still as his sight and hearing.

The hand at his hip moves. It’s pulling at his hair, now, winding the long strands into a fist and pinning his head back at it’s thrown-back angle. There’s a strain against Illumi’s throat, tension worse than that keeping him supported by his arms, but he doesn’t try to wrench himself free; it’s not  _pleasant_ , exactly, but it’s better than no sensation at all. The fingers inside him are shifting wider, stretching him wider with steady force, and Illumi is trembling like he’s electrified, the knot in his stomach going heavier as the heat under his skin collects against the weight of his cock. He’s becoming more aware of it as he gets harder, the ripples of reaction under his skin flushing him fuller and hotter with every half-frantic heartbeat, and his lips are moving on words he can’t hear, a request or a plea, he’s not sure which. There’s breath at his shoulder, warm air catching under the collar of his shirt, and then teeth, a line of pressure against the thud of his pulse like the other is interested more in spilling his blood than in fucking him. The other’s lips are warm, so hot even the edge of teeth feels radiant; the fingers inside Illumi push up, shove heat all out through his skin, and he’s so lost to the ripple of friction he doesn’t realize right away that he’s bleeding, a trickle of hot liquid spilling along his throat to replace the mouth that has pulled away again.

The touch at his hair releases. This time Illumi feels like he’s falling, as if by questioning the existence of his gravity he has removed it. He can’t tell which way is up anymore; even the ache is his arms is at too much of a distance to connect to any logic. The fingers inside him slide back and away, and then there’s nothing for a moment, or an infinity, both at the same time. Illumi blinks, is surprised to realize his eyes are still open behind the cover of the blindfold; it makes him feel truly blind, to realize he’s staring so intently at something giving up no information to him at all. It’s like the ringing in his ears, the steady thrum of his own life without any reference point becoming music and cacophony at once until he can’t think to count the seconds.

The touch is back. Illumi shudders under it, the pressure of fingertips digging into his hips, and they’re probably drawing blood too but the sensation is too much to pick out individual pinpricks of pain from the backdrop of friction. Wet at his throat, heat and motion -- a tongue, he realizes, slicking against the fast-drying blood at his skin. There’s heat behind him, too, a hard pressure familiar with suggestion, and then the hands tug him back by an inch, and the heat starts to press up into him, and everything explodes out in the first rush of friction again. Illumi’s throat is humming, evidence of a sound he can’t hear, and he’s going harder, enough that if he shifts his hips he can bump himself against the faint friction of his shirt. There’s no direct contact against his cock other than what he can manage himself; the hands stay at his hips, the heat pushing into him sinking deeper in a steady thrust, and Illumi is pretty sure, now, that’s Hisoka but he’s too hazy to remember why the confirmation might matter at all. All his attention is catching in around the pressure inside him, the other’s movement sliding away by an inch and then pushing back forward, and Illumi’s heart is beating faster and his breathing is going desperate in his throat but he can’t hear, and he can’t see, everything is hot and burning like fire and he’s not sure if it’s pain or pleasure unwinding all through him. It’s sensation, that’s all he knows, friction and heat dominating his senses until he isn’t pulling apart the thrust of the other’s hips from the tear of sharp fingernails or the wet slide of a tongue at his neck. It’s doesn’t matter, he doesn’t matter, nothing matters and he’s dissolving, there isn’t any Illumi left anymore, just a shape outlined by points of heat and friction. Everything is cresting higher, motion and the bright spark of maybe-pain and the sucking damp against his skin and all his existence draws breathlessly taut, like he’s balancing on the point of one of his own needles for an anxious heartbeat.

Then it gives way, and he vanishes, coherency and self and awareness all bursting out and away. He’s light, he’s heat, he’s color and air and sound and space and he’s-- shaking, his entire body is shaking through flushing waves of heat, every inch of his body trembling through sensation until the awareness is almost too much to bear. It’s overwhelming as it never is when he’s alone,  _real_  in a way pleasure so rarely feels for him, and when he feels the shake of sound in his throat -- a moan, he thinks, though it might be Hisoka’s name or a plea for more or less or both -- he doesn’t try to catch it back.

He’s still warm when the mouth at his shoulder lifts away, the wet contact giving way to a burst of air that speaks to the other’s satisfaction as well as the pulse of heat Illumi can feel inside him. It’s a while still, even after that, before the hands slide away, before he’s left empty and sticky and damp with sweat so unfamiliar it takes him time to place the sensation. Then there’s pressure at his ear, a pop like he’s acclimating to an elevation change, and the sound of Hisoka’s breathing too-fast and too-loud in the sudden cessation of silence.

It would be overwhelming, the sound of existence coming back, if it weren’t so routine. Illumi can place himself this way, with the pattern of Hisoka’s inhales and the faint scuff of shoes at the floor; he’s already drifting back into himself when the blindfold gives way, the fabric floating down to collapse forgotten at the floor.

“That was  _fun_ ,” Hisoka purrs at Illumi’s shoulder. “Maybe I’ll keep you up here a while longer.”

“No,” Illumi disagrees without any fire to the word. When he shifts his shoulders he pulls himself up, high enough that the motion lets him swing his legs up and invert himself against the restraints holding his weight. It’s easy enough from there to catch the taut ropes with his ankles, to take the majority of his weight there so he can slip the loops at his wrists loose and down over his fingertips.

“If I hadn’t just finished…” Hisoka purrs from his position below, his voice hitting the sultry resonance that says he’s thinking about more, regardless of what they were just doing.

“I have things to do,” Illumi says evenly. His wrists come free, he tightens his hold on the rope again, and when he inverts himself again it’s in a smooth arc, his hair falling back around his shoulders as he lets himself drop to the support of the floor. “Did you get blood on my shirt?”

“Maybe,” Hisoka says in the tone that says  _yes_.

Illumi doesn’t sigh. “Oh well.” His pants are easier to manage than the restraints, slipping back up over his hips as he shakes his hair out across his back. “I don’t suppose anyone will notice once I’m finished.”

“Want any help?” Hisoka asks. When Illumi looks at him he’s smirking, his eyes dark and glinting metallic in the makeup-pale of his face.

Illumi stares at him for a long moment. His skin is sticky, uncommonly clammy and still wet along the inside of his thighs, and he’s pretty sure the blood at his collar will render this shirt unwearable by the time he makes it back. He doesn’t  _need_  the backup, can deal with the assignment perfectly well on his own; by all logical standards, he should leave Hisoka here.

Illumi turns towards the door. “Okay,” he says.

He owed Hisoka a favor after this, anyway.


End file.
